I had a lot of trouble learning things when I needed to,
learn them,
that is,
I had reasons to off myself,
there were lists,
many,
since I was a young child who figured out that birth meant the beginning of death,
I was convinced no one would remember me,
and that my desk,
the site of so many things I once believed clever and important,
would die along with me,
would be sold for nearly nothing at an estate sale,
and years and years from now,
someone would make up a story about from whence it came,
because they did not know me,
or my words,
or to where we went,
and on my epitaph,
if someone cared to draft one,
there would undoubtedly be misunderstanding,
because even I did not know what made up my arteries,
They might say that I was born of a different time,
and I was,
one I could not remember because it did not belong to me,
one that did not remember me,
it was just love of the wrong thing,
the wrong idea,
that is all it has ever truly been,
and that,
that would waft eternally in the ether
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